Scorched
by Alchemechanist
Summary: Sherlock was the brains. John was the heart. And in the end, James Moriarty burned the heart, not the brains. After the fall, John's scars are softened when someone he neither wanted nor expected comes into his life to clean up what Sherlock left behind.
1. Chapter 1

**"As anyone who has been close to someone that has committed suicide knows, there is no pain like that felt after the incident."**

**Peter Greene**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter One<span>

It hasn't even been a week since Sherlock jumped, and already the old things are coming back.

It's strange. Even coming back from Afghanistan, battling one of the worst cases of PTSD he'd ever seen, John could function reasonably well. He could get up and make himself tea. He could remember how to put shoes on. He could walk down stairs and open doors and go out into the world. But it's like the perverse silence that Sherlock's left behind is thrumming through his eardrums, pushing in on his brain and causing a slow hemorrhage that's erasing his ability to work like a normal human being.

The limp is returning. John's used that as his excuse to sit in his chair all day long, since Sherlock did God-knows-what with his cane a few months back. It's almost like the hours slide through his fingers, the shadows on the wallpaper fading in and out of focus as time escapes his notice. At one point, he knows Mrs. Hudson is around. He can smell the vague musk of her perfume, feel the breath of soft hands on his shoulders, hear her quiet voice thrumming in the back of his head. Whatever she's saying eludes him; the sounds she make don't really translate into anything his mind can interpret. John Watson is dull.

_Dull_.

God. Sherlock. John could sit here for the rest of his life.

A crashing at the door snaps him out of his self-protecting haze, and he whips around, expecting a gunman, an assassin, a client, _something_. Instead, he sees a cardboard box spilling personal possessions everywhere, and a slender, feminine hand grappling around on the ground. A curse floats through the air and she fumbles.

And then, suddenly, she's in view, standing, hands on her hips, glaring at the mess. A word leaves John's mouth before he can stop it.

"Anthea?"

This takes her attention away from the box, and she looks up with a blank look on her face. "Oh," she says. "Didn't see you there."

John is sure his face is equally as vapid. The woman tagged in his head as Mycroft's-sexy-texting-addict-assistant is standing in his doorway with a frizzy ponytail and sweatpants, frowning down at her belongings splayed over the carpet. She looks back up at him. Seeing her without makeup and high heels is a somewhat out-of-this world experience.

"You going to help me or what?"

For the first time all day, John is standing, his legs cramping in protest, and then kneeling beside her, helping her shove all of her things back into the box. Books, toiletries, a binder of sheet music. All the things that make someone human. His hand begins to spasm uncontrollably as he shovels in a tube of shampoo.

"Looks like the limp isn't the only thing that's back," she comments. "Mycroft told me about the nervous twitch."

"Fantastic," John replies shortly. "Why are you here?"

She blinks. It's unsettling to see her without her normal immature composure. "You weren't told?"

"No," he says bluntly. "Look, Anthea, I don't want to talk to Mycroft right now, so you might as well leave."

She sighs, shoves her hands under the box, and pulls it upward, heaving it through the doorway.

"Didn't I tell you my name wasn't Anthea?" she asks, exasperated. "And I'm not here to take you to Mycroft — I'm your new flatmate."

Immediately, John is on his feet, following her in as the drops the box on Sherlock's couch. "Hold on," he says, snatching it right back up. "New flatmate? Are you being serious?"

She gives him a withering look, ripping the box right out of his hands. "No, I just packed up everything I own and came over here looking like shit for no reason." She drops the box on the couch again. "Of course I'm being serious, you idiot. Someone has to look after you, after all."

John feels his brow furrow, settling into its familiar lines. "Excuse me?" he asks. "Mycroft thinks I need a babysitter?"

She rolls her eyes, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "No," she says. "Mycroft _knows_ that you need someone to make sure you eat and not burn your flat down." She sniffs deeply and wrinkles her nose. "Case in point."

John follows her gaze to a full ashtray, stolen from Buckingham Palace, a cigarette propped up and slowly burning away. He vaguely remembers lighting it for the smell. Sherlock always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

"Get out," he says as politely as possible.

"Can't," she replies.

"Why not?"

"I already payed first month's rent," she answers with a quick shrug.

"Fantastic," he repeats.

"Right," she says. "I've got a suitcase and a backpack downstairs, so I'll be right back. Try not to do anything drastic while I'm gone."

She's back up in a moment, huffing and puffing and hauling a gigantic suitcase and a rucksack worthy of a college student. John don't offer a hand, watching her drag her load through the door and onto the couch in silence. She pushes a few frizzy hairs away from her forehead, glancing around the flat, and places her hands on her hips.

"Okay," she says briskly. "I'll put on some tea. Mind picking up a bit?"

"You can't have his bedroom," he says sharply. "I understand that I'm not going to get you to leave, but you can't have his room."

"I know," she replies, making her way around piles of books and papers toward the kitchen. "I've been sleeping on a couch for the past year anyway. It doesn't bother me."

John stares for a moment, wondering what this woman did with the sexy, snippy girl from Mycroft's car, before his feet kick into gear and he follows her into the kitchen. She's searching through the cupboards like she owns the place, tossing on the flaking red kettle like she's lived here for her entire life.

"So do you have a real name, Anthea?" he asks, supposing he should at least let her do her job. After all, he highly doubts being here is high on her to-do list.

"Claire," she replied shortly. He's surprised by the plainness of it. The woman in the car was something unachievable, something far more than a Claire. Away from business, though, she's far more normal. She smacks her hands on the counter, irritated.

"Where do you keep your tea?" she asks.

"I don't know," John replies, taking a seat where Sherlock used to stare into his microscope. "It's wherever Sherlock left it when he made tea for Moriarty."

Claire stares at him for a moment before returning to her search. She looks in drawers, in the breadbox, rechecks cupboards. She screams briefly when she opens the fridge, falling back against the table.

"All right?" he asks, unconcerned.

"There are feet in your refrigerator," she says dumbly.

"Well spotted."

She glances at me. "So he was a difficult flatmate, yeah?"

John stares at her.

"Right," she says. "Bad question. I think I'll let the tea go until I can get in a trip to Tesco." Gingerly, she takes the kettle off the stove. It's to her credit that she finds paper towels and forces herself to scoop the feet out of the fridge, tipping them into the bin with nothing more than a grim scowl.

"Why are you here?" John asks again, drumming his fingers on the scratched wood tabletop. He's really awake for the first time since he saw Sherlock's body on the ground. Energy pulses through his body. He's surprised to realize that he wants her out enough that he's willing to hurt her.

She sits opposite of him, folding her fingers. "Mycroft sent me," she says simply. "He's my boss and he's feeling guilty. I don't ask questions."

"Yeah, but I don't believe you," John replies. "Mycroft might be your boss but he can't control your life."

Claire raises an eyebrow, and her face immediately resembles the patronizing glances John would get from her in the backseat. "You have no idea what Mycroft can control," she says, and leaves it at that. They sit in silence for a long while, and John's eyes start to drift to little things that remind him of Sherlock; the deep marks on the table, the hint of rotting meat rising from the bin.

"Look," she says, yanking his attention away from a bloodstain on the counter. "I don't really know what I'm doing. I'm not a grief counselor or therapist. I'm just going to try and make sure you don't starve yourself or anything."

"Why aren't you texting?" he asks, ignoring her.

Claire cups her cheek. "Because I don't have anyone to text."

"Really? Like that nobody you were texting when I was in the car with you?"

"That was Mycroft, and I was acting. But thanks for noticing." She twiddles with a stray curl, twirling it around her index finger until it's purple.

John isn't convinced. "But you were laughing."

Claire shoots him a withering glance. "Because Mycroft was being a tit. No different than usual. And before you ask, no, there's no family to text, and the only other people on my contact list as my ex-flatmates and my ex-fiance. So now that I'm stuck here, not acting, not dressed up, and not giving a shit, I would like to be free to do what I want without being questioned."

"You're the one who barged into my flat without warning," he counters.

She shrugs. "Not my fault. Mycroft was supposed to let you know. Have you checked your mobile?"

John's lips form a flat line. No, he hasn't checked his mobile. He doesn't _have_ a mobile. He dropped it onto the asphalt when Sherlock hit the ground. Claire cocks an eyebrow and looks away.

"Right," she says. "So you and I need to get food so that I can make dinner, because you're obviously not going to do it."

Dinner hasn't even crossed his mind. His hand twitches. He snaps it closed, trying to stop it, but Claire's already seen it. Her eyes flicker to his leg.

"Or maybe takeaway," she adds.

"No," John replies quickly. "Not takeaway." She seems confused, but he's not going to open up and share his deepest, darkest feelings just because they're unfortunately living in close quarters. But all Sherlock and John ate was takeaway. He don't want anything from the old places.

"Okay," she says. "There's a Tesco Express right up the street. Right next to an Eat, if you'd rather."

In the end, they walk side-by-side down Baker Street to the Tesco. It's strange to be out of the flat, walking alongside someone who's not Sherlock, but Claire doesn't force John to pay any attention to her. He watches her buy tea and the makings of dinner, and then they're going back up the stairs and back into the flat. After being outside, he nearly vomits from the reek of cigarette smoke that has filled the flat over the course of the day. Claire shows no such signs of nausea, but, noting how pale John has become, opens a few windows without a word.

The rest of the evening is just vague. Claire throws together a salad and sandwiches, and John eats like he's never eaten before. It strikes him that he hasn't really eaten in the past week. His body has been wasting away just like Sherlock's.

It's only during nighttime that his mind becomes sharp again.

It's a living nightmare on repeat; he's out of the taxi, running — and there, Sherlock is calling him. John's heart pounds — _I'm on the rooftop — _and his world shatters into fractals as the lies and truths begin to peel away from each other — _this is my note_ — and no, no, Sherlock...

"Goodbye, John."

_"Sherlock!"_

The scream that rips out of him is the most horrifying sound that the world has ever witnessed. And Sherlock has tipped like a terrible statue, arms out, flapping wildly as he rushes toward the concrete, and no, no, _no_ —

Hands grip John's shoulders as everything goes silent following the crunch of Sherlock's bones —_Oh, God_ — and John begin to run for him — _Sherlock, no_ —straining to reach the crumpled form on the pavement — _Sherlock_ — and they shake John, tearing him away from the horror he's trying to reach.

"John! Wake up!"

His fist flies out before he can stop it, and something crushes under his knuckles. Instantly, the hands disappear, along with Sherlock, St. Bart's and the blood. Slowly, John sits up, and it takes him a moment to register the guttural sounds of pain Claire is making.

"Oh, Jesus."

He untangles himself from his sweat-dampened sheets and kneels down next to her. Claire's hands cup her nose, blood pumping down her arms and coating the carpet. She shies away from him when his hand brushes her shoulder.

"Let me look," he says softly. "I'm a doctor."

_Let me through — I'm a doctor, let me through. He's my friend._

She tilts her head up, and John peers up her nose through the darkness. When he begins to prod gently at the injury, her eyes reflexively tear up.

"God," he says. "It's definitely broken. We need to get you to a hospital."

Claire sits curled on the floor as John fetches her a towel, cupping it gingerly to her swollen nose. He pulls the sheets off his bed — they're splattered with her blood anyway — and begins to wipe her off.

"Sorry," he mutters once she's about as clean as he can get her. She shrugs, taking the towel from him and holding it herself.

"You served in Afghanistan," she replied, her voice muffled and distorted. "I should have figured that you'd be jumpy when you sleep."

John's not entirely sure that that's why he punched her, but he lets it slide. Instead, he calls for a taxi and helps her into her coat. Outside, cold rain whispers down to touch the street, turning everything foggy and antique. Claire stands on the soggy sidewalk, letting the drizzle tangle her hair, the towel clutched to her nose like a lifeline.

The cab shows up within a couple of minutes. He opens the door for Claire (he does feel guilty, no matter how much of an intruder she is) and she stares into the cab for a minute before climbing in. John follows without thinking, remembering his first week of sharing a flat with Sherlock and shooting a stranger to save his life. It's not until he's given the request for the closest hospital and the cab is headed down Baker St. that he realizes who they're sharing the cab with.

"Jesus — Mycroft, what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Mycroft, who sits on the opposite side of Claire, turns away from the window, looking entirely out of place in a cab and far too put together for the time of night. "Don't be like that, John," he replies. "I heard a cab was leaving 221B at 2:30 in the morning, and I was understandably concerned."

"You could have called," John growls, gritting his teeth.

"Ms. Yerby informed me that you no longer have your mobile, and your flat doesn't have a landline."

"Mycroft," he sighs, trying very hard to keep his temper. "What do I have to do to get it through your thick skull that I _don't want to talk to you_?"

Mycroft sniffs. "A little more than lose your phone, John," he quips. "I do have my secretary living with you, after all. Speaking of which, how is that going? Enjoying your new flatmate?"

John stares disbelievingly at him. Apparently Mycroft likes this answer.

"Good," he supplies. "Ms. Yerby, you look a bit under the weather. Are you feeling all right?"

"Oh my God," John moans, kneading her temples violently. "I broke her nose, Mycroft! Of course she's not all right!"

Mycroft's brow furrows. "Now why would you do something like that, John? She's been nothing but kind to you."

"You — oh, sod this. Stop the cab!" John exclaims, and they slowly draw to one side of the street. He reaches across the backseat, opening the door to the sidewalk. "Out, Mycroft. Get out of this cab. Now."

"Excuse me, but I haven't paid my fare," Mycroft says indignantly.

"Look, I don't _bloody _care," John shouts. "I'll pay the cabbie! I'm the one who broke your secretary's nose, anyway! Now get out!"

"Now, John —"

"You sold out my best friend — your own brother, for God's sake — and now he's dead," John spits out. "What I did to Claire was an accident. What I can do to you when I have actual control over my motor skills is far worse. Get. Out."

Mycroft holds his gaze for a moment before he lowers himself out the open door. "We're at the hospital anyway," he says. "Ms. Yerby, call a car for me."

Claire looks up miserably, the blood-soaked towel dark next to her pale face. "I can't, sir. I don't have my phone."

Mycroft raises his eyebrow.

"Let it go," John grumbles, pushing Claire out of the cab and handing the cabbie his card. "She needs an IV and a transfusion now, so if you'll kindly get out of our way, we'll get going."

Mycroft clears his throat pointedly. John looks up, observing their surroundings for the first time, and stops cold, feeling ice leak through his veins.

"No," he chokes. "Back in the cab. Not here."

"I thought she needed medical attention 'now,'" Mycroft says, inspecting his fingernails, and John swears he could kill him. He looks away from the facade rising up before them, fighting down bile.

"I can't — I'm a doctor, I can take care of her until — No, God."

"St. Bart's is fine," Claire mutters, shoulders hunched.

"No, Ms. Yerby," Mycroft says, staring him down. "Not for John. He's giving in to fear and sentiment instead of caring for a patient."

"No! Fuck you, Mycroft!" John yells, spit flying from his lips. "Your brother _killed _himself here last week! What's the matter with — no. We're going in, Claire. C'mon."

"Good job, John," Mycroft calls after them as John takes Claire by the wrist, thankfully staying where he is.

"Bugger off, Mycroft," John snaps, and he drags Claire through the automatic doors to the Emergency Room. It's full — apparently, London has been busy tonight. Within minutes, Molly has come up from the morgue, looking exhausted and half-crazed. She pales when she sees John.

"You're here," she says quickly. "Your name popped up on the computer and I thought —" John raises an eyebrow and she cuts off, nervously fingering the cuff of her coat. "Are you okay?"

"Managing," he says simply. She offers up one of her awkward half-smiles.

"I can get you to the front of the queue if you want," she says. Claire closes her eyes and nods, and Molly finally seems to realize that she and John are in the ER together. "Who's this?" she asks, tipping her head toward the woozy secretary.

"My new flatmate," John says shortly. "I punched her in the face."

Molly's smile dims, confusion flickering over her features, but she nods, unsure. "I'll push your priority," she says. "But I've got to get back to the morgue — I've got a weird respiratory thing going on that pretty much ate my cadaver from the inside out."

Claire grimaces. Molly shifts from foot to foot and then gives John an uncomfortable wave before scuttling away.

True to her word, Molly's has them past the enormous queue in the waiting room and into the treatment area in under fifteen minutes. John is mildly impressed, and within an hour they have X-rays.

"This is one of the worst breaks I've ever seen," the doctor says, glancing over at Claire, who is now being gifted with a very swollen, very crooked nose and two horrendously black eyes. "What was the cause?"

"Assault," John says absently, studying the break. He's seen far worse. When he looks at the doctor, he realizes what he's said.

"Do you need to file a police report?" the doctor asks Claire, subconsciously shifting away from the soldier. Claire shakes her head vehemently, and winces as blood rushes to her nose.

"It was an accident," she insists. The doctor doesn't seem convinced, but he lets it slide. Within a few more hours, the paperwork is worked out, Claire's nose has been realigned and braced as well as possible, and the two are climbing back into a cab.

"Sorry," John says after a few minutes of silence. "I hope your face is all right."

Claire shrugs, and when she speaks her voice is slightly slurred by painkillers. "S'fine," she says. "I've had worse. Just not for a while."

John raises an eyebrow, offering up a confused glance, but she looks out the window and doesn't move until they're back at Baker Street. The mist has turned to all-out rain, and John stands in front of the building for a moment before steeling himself to go inside. He makes sure Claire has water and painkillers and crawls back in bed, ignoring his lack of sheets. Within moments, he's asleep.

This time, when he wakes screaming, there's no one to meet him in the watery morning light.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John wakes three more times before the light changes.

In the aftermath of his final nightmare, John lays panting in bed, fighting off shivers and trying to convince his sleep-addled brain that _no_, Sherlock hadn't been in Afghanistan with him. Silty light filters in through the curtains, and John does a half-hearted mental cheer for himself. It's the morning; he's made it through another blasted night.

Then his senses kick in, and he smells bacon.

For an instant, he's extremely confused, and then he remembers with a surprising amount of guilt the events of the night prior. Swearing, he climbs out of bed and throws a striped shirt over his bare chest, giving himself a moment to breathe before venturing out into the short hallway.

Claire is a horrid sight in the light of day; two swollen, blindingly black eyes and a plum colored nose bulging to twice its normal size. It takes her a moment, but she finally sees him standing bewildered by the refrigerator.

"What?" she asks.

John has to take a moment to remember what his question is, but once he figures it out he asks it with more of a sharp accusation than he originally meant to. "What the hell are you doing?"

Claire raises an eyebrow, and her subsequent wince does not go unnoticed. "I'm making breakfast," she replies, and turns back around. John slams his hand on the kitchen table, demanding her attention. She looks over her shoulder with a scowl.

"I broke your nose last night," he snaps. "You look a right mess. Why the hell are you making me _breakfast?_"

"It's my job."

His lips turn down sharply, pulling deep lines into his face. "I'm not a charity case."

"Mycroft doesn't do charity."

"Mycroft needs to understand that I'm an adult man who is more than capable of taking care of himself."

"The bacon is burning."

"And, by extension, you need to understand that I don't want you here and that I don't need you here, and that more than anything I just want you to walk out of that door and leave me in peace."

"The bacon is _burning_."

They stare wordlessly at each other for a moment before Claire rolls her eyes and turns back to her task of making breakfast. John understands that he's lost the argument (though he's really not sure how) and plops himself despondently down at the table. The silence between the two of them is thick and unfriendly, teeming with prickly irritation even as Claire places plates of bacon, fried eggs, and hash browns onto the scarred wood.

John eats mechanically, resolutely not looking at Claire until her phone sounds off. She reads the text blankly before sighing.

"We're going to get you a new phone today," she says by means of explanation, tipping her mobile carelessly onto the table. John is, quite frankly, extremely irritated that Mycroft has begun tampering with his daily schedule.

He scoffs. "I don't have the money; I haven't been to work all week, and I was a fugitive for a couple of days before that."

"Doesn't matter. Mycroft's paying for it."

John glares. Claire, it seems, is immune, and her gaze drifts into the sitting room. After a moment, her head cocks to the side.

"He still played violin?"

John is thrown by the question, following her stare to the violin that sits just as Sherlock left it on the desk. "Yeah," he answers, stuffing eggs in his mouth as an excuse to stop looking at it.

"Funny," Claire murmurs. "He hated it when he was younger."

John pauses, squinting as he looks up. "'When he was younger?'" he questions.

Claire's eyes shift sideways. "I've worked for Mycroft for a long time," she answers elusively. John is too tired to prod.

An hour later, Claire has him out of the flat and onto the rainy London streets, her battered face drawing stares. John refuses to give input at the store, almost reducing the clerk to tears when he snarls at her offer for colored cases — the most popular of which is pink thanks to the fake genius Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, and he committed suicide; have you read it in the papers?"

In the end, once Claire has taken the humiliated attendant off to the side and John has been kicked out of the store for threatening the life of an employee, she emerges with an iPhone in his name, throws it into his hands and lets him have it.

"Look," she snaps, pushing him down onto a bench and lording over him. "I get that you're grieving, and I get that 99% of the population are idiots, but you've got to stop being such a bleeding arse."

"Sherlock wasn't a fraud," John says roughly.

"Yeah, I know. I get it." Claire cards a hand through her hair. "Most people don't know that, John. They believe what's in the papers. I mean, newpapers supposed to be reliable sources, y'know? And Sherlock was an odd duck — don't give me that look, he was. He wasn't normal, so people couldn't really deal with him. I just..." She trails off. A bus comes a little too close to the curb, splashing murky water onto the backs of her stockings. Claire looks down at them, gives the world a long suffering sigh, and offers John a hand up.

He looks down at the phone.

"Same number," Claire says, wiggling her fingers to emphasize that she's waiting.

John frowns, stuffs the mobile into his coat pocket, and stubbornly stands on his own.

* * *

><p>"Evening, John."<p>

He frowns, something that's quickly becoming a habit, and cradles his new mobile between his ear and his shoulder. "Ella," he acknowledges stiffly.

"How are you? It's been a few days since our appointment, and I was wondering if you've made any progress."

John breathes steadily through his nose, keeping his voice nice and steady. "I'm great, Ella. Best I've ever been. Really."

Ella hums skeptically over the phone. "I hear you have a new flatmate."

John takes the phone away from his ear, staring at it like he can see her facial expression, and then brings it back to speaking range with a shake of the head. Mycroft really is an insufferably nosy gossip. "Yeah, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately? I think it's wonderful. Someone to help pay the rent, to look out for you. What's his name?"

"Er, yeah. It's not wonderful."

"Do you two not get on?"

Claire thumps into the flat, laden down with about fifty Tesco bags. "Don't mind me," she mutters as she lumbers into the kitchen, dumping the great load onto the table. "Who's that? Mycroft?"

"Something like that," John says to the both of them, eyeing Claire as she rolls her eyes and starts unpacking the groceries. "Long story short, she was forced on me and I broke her nose."

Ella is silent for a moment. "She?" she asks, leaving the latter of the two issues for another time.

"Yeah, she. It's the pronoun for someone of the female gender if you didn't know. Funny thing, women. They make up about half of the global population."

"I was just surprised, John. Your last flatmate was a man."

"I'm quite aware of that, thanks."

Ella sighs heavily, the sound cracking over the phone. It's obvious that she's trying tremendously hard to be patient with him. Even though she's trained to deal with difficult people for a living, John knows he's being a dick. Claire pauses by the fridge, sitting on one hip and eavesdropping with an expression that is clearly telling him that his attitude is less than subtle.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Bad day."

"I understand," she says kindly. "I'd like to see you as soon as possible. You're going through a very difficult period and I want to keep close tabs on you. Are you keeping yourself busy?"

John thinks of his day — sluggish from a lack of sleep, with a single forced outing with Claire — and frowns deeply. "Yes," he lies.

Ella sees right through him. "I really think you should start working again," she says. "I'm assuming that won't happen by tomorrow, and since your days are free, I'd like you to come by. I've got an opening at 3:30."

"You're a busy woman. Why do you have an opening?"

"3:30 it is, then."

John leans against the counter. "No, really, Ella. You never have an opening this short notice."

She's quiet, and he hears rustling in the background. Paperwork.

"The man who had that slot was admitted to the hospital this afternoon," she finally says after a long, stubborn pause. "He tried to kill himself."

John purses his lips. "Well. That's promising."

"I'll see you tomorrow, John. Try to see if you can work up those things that you never got to say."

"Right."

He hangs up and tosses the phone carelessly onto the counter. Claire pulls her head out of the refrigerator at the noise.

"Help me out, would you?"

John reaches for a bag full to the brim with tea, dumping all the boxes out and lining them up neatly against the backsplash next to the breadbox. He can't for the life of him remember ever putting groceries away when Sherlock was alive, probably because neither of them had ever gone to the store. Having food in the flat is a foreign concept, and not one John is sure he likes. With a slam, Claire closes the fridge, brushing her hands off on her navy cotton pants and straightening her blouse. Now that she's out of the moving stage, she's gone right back to her normal professional attire.

"Right," she says. "It's only about four. What do you want for dinner tonight?"

For a moment, John sees Sherlock walking into the kitchen in his big, swirling coat casually carrying two shrunken heads in a glass case to the freezer, calling out to demand takeaway.

"Nothing," he replies. "You work for Mycroft, so you're good with controlling things. Why don't you decide for me?" He stalks past her to his bedroom, ignoring the blank mask she wipes over her face, and closes the door behind him, sliding down to the floor and resting his elbows on his knees.

_Are you there, God? It's me, Johnny._

For the first time since he was shot, John Watson actually thinks he might be slowly dying.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson comes into the flat that night when Claire is stretching her sheets back over the couch in preparation for bed.<p>

"Oh, excuse me," she mutters, sashaying past Claire and approaching John, who's staring blank-faced at his empty blog post. "I didn't know you had a new girlfriend, John," she stage whispers. Claire looks up sharply, smirking. "And what happened to her poor face? Was she attacked?"

This jolts John away from the computer and he nearly knocks over his cup of tea in his haste to correct her. "No — uh, no. She's not my girlfriend, she's just my flatmate. You know that; she paid you the rent."

Claire snorts. Mrs. Hudson pats John's shoulder sympathetically.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I wouldn't expect you to get over Sherlock so quickly. To be honest I was a little shocked. Good, I'm glad you're just friends."

John's mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

"How are you handling it?" Mrs. Hudson leans against the desk, brushing John's short hair away from his forehead. "You seemed very strong at the service, but you're always strong, John. Is there anything I can get you? Tea?"

John regains his voice and clears his throat loudly, gesturing to the cold cup of tea on the desk. "No, thanks. I've, eh, I've got some."

"I know it's hard to lose your significant other," Mrs. Hudson says sweetly. Claire lays on the couch behind her, cackling silently. "I remember when my husband died —"

"Was that the doorbell? I think that was the doorbell."

She touches her knuckles to her lips, her mouth turning down. "Ernie was fantastic."

John stands hastily, taking her gently by the elbows. "You look distressed. How about I make you a cuppa for a change?"

It takes another good hour of conversation and awkward allusions to John and Sherlock's relationship before John manages to hustle Mrs. Hudson down the stairs. By the end of it, Claire is dozing on the couch, her already swollen eyes nothing by slits in the light of the fire Mrs. Hudson had insisted she light. John watches her for a moment until she grunts "Stop staring at me."

He shakes his head and returns to gazing emptily at his blog.

* * *

><p>It's dark when he wakes up, his lungs sucking in air like he's been holding his breath. The fire is nothing but a few weakly glowing embers, the only illumination in the room coming from the dirty orange light filtering in from the street lamps. He's still in his uncomfortable office chair, which has left an awful crick in his neck, and his computer has turned itself dark. By the time he had fallen asleep, he still hadn't managed to write a word.<p>

John leans forward, letting out a long, slow sigh before he cradles his head in his hands. He stares at the desk, his eyes straining to decipher the wood grains in the gloom.

Hands gently touch his shoulders, and he leaps up, his pelvis ramming into the desk with a smack that is certain to leave bruises on his hipbones. His hands fly out as he whips around, snatching up the fingers that rise up protectively, and he draws close to the perpetrator to immobilize them. They don't move for a moment, and John lets his eyes draw the face out of the darkness, hoping for one irrational moment that the long fingers in his grip belong to Sherlock.

Instead, Claire stares at him with no discernible expression.

John lets her go, turning toward the window and looking out to an empty Baker Street. "You would think that after I attacked you the first time you would learn."

"You were already awake this time."

He leans his elbow into the window frame, kneading his temple with his knuckles. Claire huffs and wanders off to make tea, carelessly calling over her shoulder "Don't forget that you have an appointment with Ella today."

It's four in the morning, and John doesn't see the point of going back to sleep so he paces the room as Claire fumbles around in the kitchen. Little things catch his eye, little aches and pains; the violin, collecting dust on the stand; the skull, where the cigarettes John hadn't managed to burn still hide; small scraps of newspaper and photographs and string and parchment and pages torn from books and feathers and pens and all the peculiar little messes Sherlock left behind scattered all over the room.

John buries his fingers into his short hair as best he can and curls his fingers in deep, tugging at the fine strands. Claire comes back in with the tea and stops short, hesitating to enter the room like John's buried grief is contagious. For a moment, they stare at each other.

"Do you need something?" he snarls.

She crosses the room wordlessly and places the tea — Earl Grey with lemon, his normal morning tea (though he's not quite sure how she knows it) — on the desk before disappearing into the bathroom. John stands frozen until he hears the shower start.

He sits numbly back in the chair, breathing out a painfully labored breath before he wakes his computer back up. The cursor blinks mockingly at him, the screen blinding in the darkness of the flat, and he raises his hands to the keys, knowing that Ella is going to be extremely unhappy with the entry that's taken him over a week to write.

_I've made it eight days. If you've got that miracle I asked for up your sleeve, I suggest that you let it out before I lose my mind._

* * *

><p><strong>Please take a moment to review.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: Language**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Three<span>

Claire is good, John has to give her that. She doesn't even jump when he slams the door to the flat behind him, though the same can't be said for Mrs. Hudson, who yelps and drops her teapot onto the linoleum. It shatters, but Claire's eyes never stop tracking John, who strides clear through the living room and snatches up the skull. After rooting around for a lighter, he slams himself down into his chair and lights up, fuming.

"Oh, don't smoke in the house," Mrs. Hudson frets before Claire shoos her away and begins to clean up the mess all over the kitchen floor. The flat is silent for a while before all the porcelain is safely in the trash and the tea mopped up. Claire watches John from the kitchen for a few minutes before coming and standing in front of him.

"Aren't doctors supposed to set a good example by not smoking?" she asks dryly.

John's answering glare is poisonous. Claire sighs and moves to sit in Sherlock's vacant chair before deciding against it and settling on the floor. John drills his gaze into the wall.

"What happened at Ella's?" Claire asks gently.

John grunts.

"If you don't answer me, I'll call Mycroft and have him come over here to personally drag the answer from you."

Slowly, his gaze drags down, boring into her instead. She doesn't flinch, taking it in stride, and sends back an even, level stare. After a few minutes, John gives up and shoves his cigarette back in his mouth. He speaks with it clenched between his molars.

"A few days before my unit was transferred from Bastion to the middle of fucking nowhere, we were on a regular patrol in the really awful part of Lashkar Gah."

Claire leans against Sherlock's chair, an eyebrow raised, but says nothing.

"Patrol was one of the most boring, pointless things the military has ever funded, and that's saying a lot," John continues. "Every day, we'd go through neighborhoods, our units cycling so that we could keep fresh eyes on the same old locations. So one day we get a tip from an anonymous source that a family was housing weapons for AQ, so we go in there, guns at the ready, and knock on the door like usual. Ask them if they're housing anything, ignore their answer and barge in anyway."

"We're supposed to be talking about Ella," Claire monotones.

John ignores her. "But the head of the house doesn't like that my men are pointing guns at his women, so he shoves one of my boys back and tries to force us back into the street. He doesn't care that we're waving assault rifles in his face; he pushes anyways, yelling his fucking head off. I'm hanging in the back, and I've had a pretty bad day by Afghanistan standards — lost a commando the day before, just got news that we're being transferred to arsecrack nowhere, and the plumbing at base is under construction — so I lose it, push past my unit, and just stand there, staring the fucker down. And he just freezes, looking at me with the biggest eyes I've ever seen, and after a minute, since we're slightly downwind of him, we can smell that he's shit his pants."

Finished, John takes a long drag off of his cigarette, and returns his eyes to the wall above Claire's head. She watches him for a few minutes before sighing loudly.

"I don't see what that has to do with how your therapy went today."

John shrugs. "It doesn't. It's just that the look that made a gunrunner shit himself did nothing for you. Makes me wonder what the hell you really do for a living."

"I work for Mycroft," she replies dryly. He rolls his eyes, and she rolls hers right back. "Maybe your death glare's just out of practice."

"Right."

"So are you going to make me call him or are you going to tell me what happened?"

John looks back down to her, but the energy is gone from his eyes this time. Somehow, this empty, exhausted stare is what makes Claire visibly uncomfortable. "Nothing," he says finally. "We talked about this bloody rain, and sat in silence for a while before she figured out that I was trying to read her writing upside down. We drank some lovely tea, she informed me that England is blowing the World Cup, and she made me say it out loud that Sherlock — hng."

Claire's eyebrows fly up into her fringe as John chokes on the words, trying and failing to cover it up by chomping down on the cigarette and looking away.

"John?" she prompts.

He ignores her, rubbing the cigarette out on the stolen ashtray and getting to his feet, lumbering into the kitchen. She's after him in a heartbeat, kicking off her stilettos so that she can follow him quickly. He slams the kettle on to boil, breathing heavily through his nose.

"What did she make you say?" she asks gently, leaning on the counter next to her. He turns away sharply. "John," she prods.

"Nothing," he snaps.

"Why were you so angry when you came in?" Claire demands, swinging back into his field of vision. Again, he turns his shoulder to her face, earning a scowl that he doesn't see. "What did she make you say?"

"Piss _off_," John growls.

Claire shoves his shoulder, forcing him to face her, and snatches his chin in her hands before he can turn away. "Tell me what she made you say," she snarls in return. "It's my job to know." He yanks away, and she latches on to his jumper, yanking their noses together. Up close, she's all big eyes and purple skin. _"Tell me!"_

_ "Sherlock's dead!" _John roars, shoving her shoulder so hard that they're ripped apart, Claire letting out a gasp when the table breaks her fall. "He's dead, he's dead, he's _fucking_ dead!"

Claire eases off the island, palms up. "John," she says in warning.

He grits his teeth, his eyes burning and feral; for a moment, she can see him on the desert, sand in the creases of his sunburned skin and a gun raring in his hands, and she fears for herself. Now that she's got him going, he's not stopping. "She made me repeat it, over and over. Until it didn't mean anything. They were just sounds by the end, and he's — he's more than sounds, Sherlock is —"

"Was," Claire says gently.

His mouth tangles, and he raises his hand as if to strike her. She steps back, fists clenching. His hand drops.

"_Was_," she says again. "Ella's right. Accept it, John. It's what you need."

His teeth gnash together, and his tongue lashes out cruelly as the kettle begins to whine. "Get out," he says, his voice low, powerful; again, he's a dangerous man about to snap. "Get out of our flat. You don't belong here — get _out_."

"I'm not leaving," Claire says firmly. "If I was so easily persuaded, I wouldn't have come back after you broke my nose. It's my job to take care of you."

"_God_, I can't _stand_ you!" John shouts, raising his voice over the shrieking of the kettle. "You don't get to walk all over my life! You're an insufferable prat, no wonder you've got an ex-fiance!"

Claire blanches. John powers on, past the point of caring.

"What was it?" he yells, slamming the screaming kettle to the side. Boiling water splashes onto the counter and floor. "What _finally_ pushed him over the edge, Claire? What made him snap? Did you tattle on him to Mycroft? Demand to know all his secrets so that you could control every little thing because you should, because it's your job? Or did you sleep with your boss? You and Mycroft have so much in common, I'm sure it'd make a damn good shag. So what did you do to make him leave you, Claire? _What?_"

The aftermath of John's screaming is painfully quiet. For once, there's no vacuum, no music, no kitchen appliances filtering up from downstairs. The kettle has settled, the water spreading silently and cooling over the floor. John's breathing echoes off of the walls. But the worst thing is Claire, her face drawn and colorless, her eyes fixed on John's, her pupils blown wide. Her mouth hangs slack; everything is slack, devoid of energy. The silence hangs between them, and slowly John's heart rate falls, his rage sinking back into his mind and leaving him with a pervasive sense of guilt.

It ends when Claire, without a word, turns and walks out of the kitchen, out the door, and down the stairs. She doesn't grab a coat or gather her things. A moment later, John hears the front door close softly.

He stands in the kitchen until Mrs. Hudson ventures up the stairs, finds him in a pool of cold water, and bursts into tears.

* * *

><p>John was never the cruel one. He always thought before he spoke, unlike Sherlock, and was always the one to elbow or kick or prod because <em>yes, <em>that was very rude, and _yes_, you should definitely apologize, you ignorant prick. _Yes, _I know you don't feel like it, but go apologize because that's what people with normal feelings do when they hurt another person with normal feelings.

He would apologize, if Claire would come back.

It's midmorning and she still hasn't shown her face. John hasn't slept, despite Mrs. Hudson's insistence that he eat some chocolate digestives and nap on the couch. Tea is out of the question, since the teapot is in the rubbish bin along with the kettle, which is now dented beyond repair. So he sits at the desk for a long while, twiddling his thumbs while staring at an empty blog post. He sorts through the book shelves (that operation ends abruptly when he finds a book filled with newspaper clippings on the cases that Sherlock solved). He paces across the sitting room, through the kitchen, up and down the stairs, smoking and muttering and nibbling on chocolate digestives before he can't take it anymore. John thunders down the stairs, yelling over his shoulder that he's out to get a new kettle when really all he wants is the smoggy air of London filling his lungs.

He's barely out the door when the sleek black sedan pulls up the curb alongside him.

For a moment, he debates, staring at his warped reflection in the reflective and no doubt bulletproof glass before he opens the door to the backseat. The driver doesn't acknowledge him, rolling forward the moment the door is closed.

The drive is long. John is grateful that the backseat is outfitted with a minifridge, and starts to break open the water bottles an hour into the journey. London streaks away, the city drying out and giving way to industrial landscapes, and then the green hillocks of the countryside, rolling on forever. It's a picturesque day, unlike the storms of the days previous, and cheerful clouds scud across the criminally bright sky.

John's legs are aching to be stretched by the time the manor begins to loom in the distance, and he begins to shift as the driver takes them up the winding road, going through ornate gates and a fantastically landscaped grounds on the way. He stops at the great front door and John lets himself out, impressed by the dominating structure of the place. Seventeen flagstone steps later — the same as Baker Street, he notes — and he's rapping on the enormous oak doors, his knuckles tiny and inconsequential by comparison.

A butler answers the door. He knows who John is, letting him in without a word, and leads him through a maze of hallways so fast that John is sorry that he doesn't get a chance to look around more thoroughly.

"Excuse me," he asks politely. "Where am I?"

The butler remains silent, but gestures him through an open door. John gives him a lingering look before stepping inside.

The sitting room is nicely small compared to the rest of the manor, but almost garishly ornate. John's eyes follow the wallpaper, the curtains, the woodwork, almost passing right over the real power in the room. An aged woman looks up from her laptop as he stands in the doorway, her colorless eyes glaring from over a pair of half-moon glasses.

"Doctor Watson," she says sharply, and stabs her finger at an armchair opposite hers. "Sit."

The cadence. The aristocracy, the lack of emotion, the clear eyes, the high cheekbones. It's very clear who she is. John feels very small as he does as she says, staring at the woman who had the tenacity to birth and raise the Holmes brothers. She works for a few more minutes, her fingers flying over the keys and her face remaining strangely blank as John awkwardly observes her. Eventually, she snaps her laptop closed and discards it on a nearby table. The butler enters without her calling, and she gives a meaningful look to John. He leaves again.

"So," she says. "You're an interesting case, Doctor Watson."

Yes, definitely Sherlock's mother.

"I don't remember seeing you at the service," John says. "After he — passed."

She blinks slowly, her eyes reproachful over the lenses of her glasses. "He didn't _pass_, Doctor Watson, he _died_."

A lump forms sturdily in John's throat, but he inclines his head, speaking as best he can around it. "It's John, please."

She stares at him for a moment before steepling her fingers in front of her bowed lips. "No, I wasn't at the funeral," she says after an extremely awkward silence. "I was in Milan at the time. I don't abandon my work for sentiment."

John's jaw unhinges slightly, but he draws it up as quick as he can. She doesn't miss it — of course she doesn't, she's just an older version of Sherlock — and her eerie eyes follow the movement before flicking back to his stare.

"Yes," she says. "You're quite interesting."

They cease talking again. As the silence stretches on, John finds more and more details that prove that Sherlock was just a carbon copy of this woman with a borrowed Y chromosome. The shape of the lips, the curl of the hair, the long bones. She stares him down until the silent butler comes back, leaving a tray of tea and biscuits for two.

"He doesn't speak because he has no tongue," she says as John's eyes follow him out the door. "I had him make Earl Grey with lemon — your usual morning tea. I know you haven't had any today."

John can't even be surprised. He mutters his thanks as he pours himself a cup. She waves away the offer when he gestures the teapot to her own cup.

"It's very easy to see what Sherlock liked about you," she murmurs, tracing her lips with a fingertip. "You're in an odd place, John. Intriguing. Do you know why you're here?"

"Because Mycroft wants me to be here?" John asks dryly.

"Wrong," she says softly.

"What, then?"

"Because _I _want Mycroft to want you to be here," she responds. "He was all set to let the wolves have you after your little display yesterday. I had to remind him that you people have feelings that make you overreact to stimulus. He's very protective of Claire."

John kneads at his temple, his brow creasing.

"You regret it," she says.

"What's your name?" he asks abruptly. "I just — sorry. They always called you Mummy, and I just can't — it's odd."

She gives him a humorless smile. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Agatha Holmes," she offers. "Mycroft was the only one who called me Mummy, and was quickly shaken of the habit when Sherlock did nothing but verbally abuse him about it."

Agatha stares at him again until he nods. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I regret it. I don't — I lost control."

"Yes," she replies. "You most certainly did."

"I don't need a caretaker."

"I rather think you do," Agatha says. "I disagree with many things Mycroft imposes upon people, but this is the right choice. Sherlock managed to worm himself so far into your life that he's left a gaping space where he used to be. He was your vitality, and now that he's gone it's left you drowning."

John looks down into his tea.

"James Moriarty wasn't telling Sherlock that he was going to literally burn his heart out on a hot poker," Agatha says after he's remained astutely quiet for some time. "He was saying he was going to burn _you_."

John's head jerks up like he's held on a tense string, his eyes burning into Agatha. "What do you mean?" he demands.

"Nobody questions that Sherlock cared deeply for you," she states. "And I know for a fact that you were the first and last person he ever cared for in such a fashion. You were his quote-unquote 'heart.' Moriarty killed him to hurt you."

"Moriarty didn't kill him. He killed himself."

Agatha raises a thin eyebrow. "Don't be stupid. He physically threw himself off of the building, yes. But don't believe for a moment that he wanted to."

John's vision blurs, and he doesn't realize that he's tearing up until Agatha rolls her eyes and tosses him a handkerchief. Cheeks burning, he hands it back with only a couple of damp spots, recomposing himself quickly. He clears his throat before speaking again.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know why he did it," Agatha says, folding her bony fingers together. "But he must have had a reason. Sherlock never did anything without a reason and a gain."

John looks down into his tea, which is growing cold in his hands. A throat is cleared from the doorway. John looks up to see Mycroft, who is glaring coldly down at the army doctor, his posture held stiff and uncomfortable.

"Think about it," Agatha says, rising from her chair to make way for her eldest. Mycroft gives her a formal nod before he lowers himself down, crossing one suited leg over the other and folding his fingers into each other. He holds all the power of his mother in that chair.

He waits until she's safely out of earshot before leaning forward, staring through the mask John's drawn over his expression.

"So, Doctor Watson," he says in a voice that is terrifyingly quiet and laced with poison, his incisors flashing between his thin lips. "What would you like to say before I tear you limb from limb?"

* * *

><p><strong>Please do a girl a solid and take a moment to review.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter Four**

_ "What the — bloody hell, John, why are you up here?"_

_ Lestrade's voice crashes against the gaping void in John's mind. It feels unreal, standing on the rooftop, surrounded by Scotland Yard but not Sherlock. Donovan is walking towards him, her face twisted into something between concern and badly hidden self-satisfaction._

_ "John, you've had a bad shock," she says slowly. "You need to sit down."_

_ He shakes his head, trying to dispel the feeling that there's cotton filling his ears, and waves her off. "I need to see," he mumbles, his leg dangerously close to collapsing under him. "He couldn't have just — something's wrong."_

_ Lestrade's sigh can be heard from all the way across the windswept roof as he stride over from the edge, his long coat flapping. "There's nothing up here, John," he says raggedly, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He refuses to meet John's eyes._

_ "There's got to be," John says resolutely, pushing down the civilian and bringing up the soldier. "He wasn't a fraud, you know."_

_ Lestrade digs the pads of his fingers into his eyes, grimacing. "John, there's nothing up here," he repeats wearily. "An eyewitness claims they heard a distant gunshot right before you arrived, but there's nothing. No blood, no ammo. Nothing."_

_ It takes some convincing, but eventually Lestrade forces John to sit and wraps him in one of the hated shock blankets, curiously tender. He's known losses, John supposes, but not like this. No one has ever lost someone like Sherlock because someone like Sherlock has simply never existed._

_ "I was right, wasn't I?" he hears Sally saying freely to another officer, her dark curls blowing into her lip gloss. "He was a fraud, and he got exposed. Heard there was going to be a story in the paper and everything. I knew it was impossible to be that much of a freak, didn't I? Couldn't take the heat and offed himself. Bloody coward."_

_ John is on his feet before he knows it, and has got Donovan's coat collar gripped in his shaking fists before he can blink. She pales, stammering, pupils dilated and slim fingers pulling at John's fists uselessly._

_ "For God's sake, John, let go!" Lestrade roars, yanking at the doctor's shoulders, and John's leg finally gives out, crumpling beneath him. He lets Donovan go without protest, letting Lestrade's knees against his back break his fall as his eyes close against the steely clouds over London. _

_ "Christ," Lestrade groans. "Donovan, just — leave. Go wait in the car and don't come back until I tell you."_

_ "Sir —"_

_ "Did I not make myself clear? You've done enough damage. You're not a sociopath, so there's no damn excuse for abusing someone else's emotions."_

_ She's goes silently, abashed. John remains crumpled on the concrete of the roof. If he had just been there a few minutes earlier — God, if he had never left in the first place — Sherlock wouldn't be in the morgue several floors under him. Their heads could be pointed in the same direction, their bodies sprawled out over rooftop or exam table. If he hadn't —_

You machine.

_ John has never felt so completely insubstantial in his life._

_ "Oi! John, can you hear me?" _

_ His eyes flash open, taking in a foreboding iron sky and Lestrade, who has bent over him. A nameless officer is draping the blanket back over him, cautiously keeping his distance after the display with Donovan. John doesn't blame him. All he wants to do is shoot something._

_ This might show on his face, because the hard lines on Lestrade's wind-pinked skin soften a bit, and he offers a hand. John takes it because it's polite, because he should, but it takes everything out of him to climb to his feet. He doesn't remember much from there, but suddenly he's clambering out of a police cruiser and being escorted up the stairs to 221B. Someone with a deep voice speaks downstairs as Lestrade sits him into his chair and makes him tea, and the sounds of Mrs. Hudson's sobs float up not long after. _

_ Lestrade adjusts the shock blanket and lets a sniveling Mrs. Hudson take over when she's composed herself enough to make food. She pats John's cheek, his good shoulder, his hair as his tea grows cold, whispering condolences and sympathies and crying every once in a while. Eventually, he asks her to leave, his voice tightly would and barely controlled. Thankfully, she does._

_ That night, John burns the shock blanket in their fireplace and stares at the reflection of the flames on the soft wood of Sherlock's violin._

* * *

><p>John doesn't immediately answer Mycroft, and they stare each other down for so long that exhaustion sinks into John's bones more deeply than it ever has before. John's placid, but Mycroft's eyes are very clearly telling him that he's more than welcome to join Sherlock beyond the grave, and that Mycroft might just see to it personally.<p>

"Why are you so protective of her?" John asks finally. "She's an adult woman. You're her boss. What the hell is going on between you two?"

Mycroft's lips tighten into the beginnings of a snarl. John blinks, blurting out words before his brain catches up to his mouth.

"Hang on — _are_ you sleeping together?"

Mycroft is momentarily derailed and raises a prim eyebrow, properly scandalized. "Of course not," he sniffs coldly. "She's fourteen years my junior."

John raises an eyebrow. Mycroft sneers in return.

"Yes, well, I realize that some men take delight in fresh faces and bodies, but I, for one, am not the kind to seduce younger women with power and money." His lips curl. "Especially not ones I am so fond of."

John, for lack of anything to say or do, takes an uncomfortable sip of lukewarm tea. Mycroft leans forward again, his lips tucking down. His anger has cooled slightly. For now, John is no longer in danger of death, only maiming.

"Do you have any idea of the significance of what you said to her yesterday?"

Groaning lightly, John sets the tea aside and rubs his fingers over his face, dragging down the bags under his eyes. "Look, Mycroft," he says. "I feel awful about it and I would apologize in a heartbeat if she would just come back. You know I'm not normally like that. It's just that Ella —"

"Yes, John, I know. I have an audio copy of the entire argument."

John sighs. "Of course you do."

Mycroft leans back, eyeing John distastefully. His hand drifts almost languidly to the side table and pulls a thick file folder out from underneath his mother's laptop. John's eyes follow the file hungrily. It's got to be something on Sherlock, surely, something important — or Moriarty. They've imprisoned him again, perhaps, and decided to give him the death sentence without trial, and maybe John can even pull the trigger himself.

Instead, Mycroft folds it open and John is faced with a young man who throws his mind into confusion. His face is familiar in a way that instills anger into every fiber of John's being, but there's something that breaks the illusion that he's looking at a picture of James Moriarty. There's too much warmth in his eyes; his smile is too genuine, far too sane. John looks up warily, and Mycroft shakes the file impatiently until the ex-soldier takes it from him.

"This is Richard Brooke," Mycroft says, and chills run down John's spine. "Budding actor, host of a poorly-known BBC children's show, and half-brother to one James Moriarty."

"Why are you showing me this?" John asks hoarsely, holding the papers as though they might explode in his hands. Mycroft rolls his eyes and reaches forward, flipping the front page away to reveal a sickening picture of that reminds John a little too much of some of his days in Afghanistan. He flips through the crime scene images all grouped together, his stomach souring at the crater in the pavement, the body fragments and fleshy blood and splintered bones erupting out from the nucleus.

"He was killed," John says shortly, looking up from the file once he's had enough. "RPG, looks like. Surefire way to make sure there's absolutely no chance of survival."

"Assassinated, yes," Mycroft replies, tracing his lips with his fingers and sending an icy gaze toward his companion. "Turn the page."

John does so with a great deal of chagrin, knowing what he'll see before he does, and lets out a long, slow breath when he sees the picture of Claire. She's wrapped in an orange shock blanket with the eyes of someone who has been drugged into sedation, perched unsteadily on the back of an ambulance. A paramedic is in the middle of trying to wipe Richard Brooke's blood off of her face and out of her hair. John tears his eyes away, snaps the file closed and tosses it almost violently back to Mycroft. He catches it with ease, the anger clearly back.

"So," he says softly. "You see why what you said was explicitly horrible."

"He didn't leave her," John says, closing his eyes and massaging his temples so hard that he wonders if there might be bruises. "Moriarty killed him to create his alias."

Mycroft sighs heavily.

"Jesus," John groans.

Mycroft sighs again.

"When did this —?" John sets his tea aside, feeling oddly sick. "When did this happen?"

"About two months prior to Sherlock's death," Mycroft answers. "What you must realize, John, is that I sent Claire to 221B for you just as much as I sent her for herself."

Mycroft was always better at reading people's expressions than Sherlock, and he picks up on John's confusion without effort. "She is one of those people who was seemingly born to serve," he says. "It was a good deal of my reasoning for hiring her. She's a natural caretaker, and it distresses her if she can do nothing to help in a time of need. My hope was that not only would she keep you from falling to vices or becoming a danger to yourself, but that she would be able to latch on to someone to take care of in lieu of her fiance's death."

"Fiance," John murmurs. "God."

"Due to become a sister-in-law to James Moriarty this January," Mycroft adds wryly. "Though, really, Richard was completely estranged from his brother. It's funny, how little family means in the long run."

"Did it mean anything to you?" John asks cuttingly. "Because to me it seems that Sherlock's — that all this has been nothing but a blip in your otherwise perfect little system."

Mycroft fingers the file thoughtfully. "Yes," he answers after some thought. "It does faze me, and I will admit that I do feel uncomfortably close to sad. But Sherlock and I are too much alike to really care for each other. Our loyalty to each other — or rather, my loyalty to him, since it was not quite reciprocated — ran deep, but not deep enough to reach our emotions."

"Your loyalty to Claire runs that deep," John points on, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Why not to your own brother?"

Mycroft sighs deeply through his nose, utterly miffed. It gives John a small, childish burst of satisfaction. "Our history runs back a very long time, and is quite delicate," he says primly. "It is hers to tell you, if she wishes."

They sit in silence for some time, John mulling over Claire and Sherlock and Moriarty and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock, Mycroft mulling over God-knows-what. Eventually, John just stands to go, and Mycroft does not stop him.

"Keep what we've spoken about today in mind," he calls absentmindedly as John exits the room. John doesn't dignify him with a reply, and strides quickly out of the mansion by memory, thanking Agatha for the tea as he passes her on his way out. He sleeps deeply on the ride back to Baker Street, waking only when they are parked at the curb and the driver has opened the door he was leaning on.

London has been darkened by nightfall, and John stands on the sidewalk for a few minutes watching the passerby and trying to determine their life stories. Sherlock would have been able to without a smidgeon of the effort John is putting into it, but he likes to think that he learned a thing or too from his best friend.

Claire is in the kitchen when John enters the flat, working under the fluorescents like nothing has happened between them. The smell filling the room is vile and chemically. John hasn't realized how much he's missed the stench of Sherlock's various experiments. This, he thinks, comes close enough.

"What's this?" he asks, standing uncomfortably in the doorway. She barely spares him a glance, up to her wrists in some fleshy liquid.

"Liquid latex," she says shortly. "I worked with a makeup artist on the West End for a while and she taught me how to make someone look like an entirely new person. It's a good skill to have when you work for Mycroft Holmes."

John agrees with her simply because he feels he ought to and sits opposite from her, watching her work as the hours tick on. Somewhere along the line, he makes her tea and she smiles and thanks him, and it's just enough to pass as an apology between them. She doesn't stop working under three in the morning, at which point he accidentally clues her into the fact that he hadn't slept in nearly 48 hours, and she orders him immediately to bed.

John does as she says, and dreams of the morgue.

* * *

><p>The next morning, there's a note on the refrigerator written in neurotically neat handwriting.<p>

_John_, it reads. _I am gone today. Mycroft is in need of my services. Breakfast and lunch are already made and in the fridge. Please remember that the flat is being monitored and I will know if you do not eat. If I am not back tonight, you and Mrs. Hudson will be going out to dinner. Please make a run to Tesco and pick up some milk, dishwashing soap, and canned cat food. Get out of the flat for a while. And do try not to do anything drastic. Yours, Claire._

John stares at the paper, wondering blearily why on earth his flatmate is in need of cat food, and wanders off to make tea.

Just to irritate Mycroft (because the instructions he left on the fridge were certainly his), he eats breakfast at Speedy's instead, ignoring the barista's curious glances. He gets those a lot; those hey-aren't-you-that-guy-who-was-always-with-Sherlock-Holmes looks. It's like people are unable to see him and Sherlock as separate entities. One does not exist without the other.

Suddenly, John feels as though he's missing his left arm and immediately loses his appetite.

He stops eating and just sticks to his coffee.

Within minutes, he blacks out.

When John comes back to himself, he's standing in front of 221B and the sky had darkened down to a near black. His palms are scraped and his mouth tastes like blood. He doesn't realize that he's knocked on the door until Mrs. Hudson opens it and screams into her hand.

She pulls him in to 221A and sits him down on the couch, cupping his face. It takes her three tries to get him to respond to her queries of whether or not he's all right. Somewhere along the line he asks her to get him his kit, and she fidgets while he cleans the scrapes on his hands and his split lip. He has the presence of mind to draw blood; Mrs. Hudson squeaks when he pulls out the needle.

"Drugged," he croaks by means of explanation, his hands shaking as he fights to pinpoint a good vein. Mrs. Hudson steadies his hands uncertainly, and together they manage to collect a good sample.

John's wallet is gone, along with his mobile and his keys to the flat.

He still has no idea where he was from mid-morning to night.

Despite Mrs. Hudson's fretting, John gathers up his medical supplies and returns to 221B and curls up on Sherlock's couch, his head cradled by the Union Jack pillow. When he wakes up again, it's four in the morning and his head is clear.

He traipses to the bathroom and examines himself. There's an abrasion on his cheekbone, and swelling on his jaw. Mugged? Perhaps. Sherlock would have been able to tell him in a heartbeat, and then he would have hunted down the perpetrators and punished them accordingly. And gotten John's mobile back.

The door slams and someone drops keys on the table. John ventures out and stops dead in his tracks.

Claire stands bleeding in the kitchen.

* * *

><p><strong>I apologize for the massive delay — some personal things have gotten in the way. Please take a moment to review!<strong>


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